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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26014882">Don't love me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dabs_into_oblivion/pseuds/dabs_into_oblivion'>dabs_into_oblivion</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>ineffable husbands [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Angels and Demons, Crowley isn't good at letting people love him, Love Confessions, Love Confessions Gone Wrong, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Possibly Aromantic Crowley, Post-Canon, even though he desperately wants to be loved</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:21:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,426</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26014882</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dabs_into_oblivion/pseuds/dabs_into_oblivion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale attempts to confess his feelings for Crowley. It does not go as expected.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>ineffable husbands [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1713622</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i'm trying a more long form fic -- i usually abandon these after about 5 chapters, but i'm going to try my best not to this time. feedback is greatly appreciated!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>The Ritz. Sunday. The day after the world was supposed to end.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Aziraphale sets down his fork with the most delicious sigh. "That was simply <em>heavenly</em>," he sighs.</p><p> </p><p>Crowley's stomach clenches uncomfortably. He manages to shove it down and says gruffly, "Coffee, angel?"</p><p> </p><p>The angel's eyes sparkle. "I rather hoped we might go back to the bookshop for a nightcap, my dear."</p><p> </p><p>"Ngk. All right then." Crowley waves down one of the wait staff to ask them for the bill. He brushes aside Aziraphale's feeble attempts to pay, as usual. When they've done, Crowley sobers himself up just enough to drive and walks Aziraphale out to the Bentley.</p><p> </p><p>The drive home -- not home, to the bookshop, don't be silly Crowley, that isn't your home -- is punctuated only by the mournful sounds of <em>Who Wants to Live Forever?</em> and <em>Too Much Love Will Kill You.</em> Crowley, scowling, moves to turn off the music but Aziraphale waves his hand away. Crowley spends the rest of the drive pointedly not thinking about what Aziraphale's hand might have felt like if it had actually deigned to touch his own.</p><p> </p><p>Miraculously they find a parking spot right in front of the bookshop. Aziraphale is out of the car before Crowley has taken the key from the ignition, poised to open his door. Crowley's brow furrows, but he still gets out of the car because he can smell the alcohol on his tongue and maybe if he drinks enough of it he'll be able to get the angel's scent out of his mouth. The angel also holds the front door of the bookshop open for him. Crowley shrugs and walks through, heading directly for the somewhat shabby and extraordinarily comfortable sofa in the depths of the shop, behind the parts that customers are reluctantly allowed in.</p><p> </p><p>He can hear Aziraphale's feet behind him, can feel the angel's distinct lack of breathing. They don't need to breathe, of course, never have, but Aziraphale usually does anyway to fit in with the humans, and Crowley does so <strike>his angel</strike> <strike>his enemy</strike> <strike>the love of his life</strike> the sentimental Principality won't feel lonely. -Ridiculous notion,- he says to himself now under his breath. But then he goes cold from the memory of Gabriel telling him-as-Aziraphale to "shut your stupid mouth and die already."</p><p> </p><p>Aziraphale, now, presses a glass of scotch into his hand. "What shall we drink to, dear?"</p><p> </p><p>Crowley is blessed if he cares. "Saving the world, I suppose," he says a bit dourly, raising his glass and clinking it against Aziraphale's before downing its contents in one burning gulp. Strangely, that doesn't make him feel any better.</p><p> </p><p>Aziraphale looks at him strangely as he downs his own drink in a much more decorous, if not exactly angelic, manner. And then he is sitting on the sofa next to Crowley, wringing his hands a little bit, and the demon stops breathing as he wrestles to keep his feelings under wraps.</p><p> </p><p>"My dear --" tries Aziraphale. Stops. Begins again. "My dear Crowley, there is something I must tell you. Something I should have told you long before now, but I was a coward, and --" He pauses again. "Well, the <em>why</em> doesn't matter so much now." His eyes are so, so blue in the low light. He really doesn't keep his shop well lit, someone should tell him that, and Crowley opens his mouth to do so but Aziraphale isn't finished, evidently. "The thing is, my dear -- dearest, I'm in love with you."</p><p> </p><p>Crowley blinks. Coughs. "No you're not."</p><p> </p><p>(Now, before you get angry at Crowley, esteemed reader, the humble author invites you to consider that he is extremely tired and spent a good portion of Saturday thinking that Aziraphale was dead; he hasn't completely gotten over the shock and he hasn't really been allowed to be alone since then.)</p><p> </p><p>Aziraphale draws back. "What?"</p><p> </p><p>Crowley presses his lips together, hard. He will not cry. Crying is not something that demons do. Even though he is a very bad demon -- or, he supposes, not actually very bad at all, since bad is what he's supposed to be -- he won't cry.</p><p> </p><p>By a Herculean effort, his lower lip only trembles a tiny bit as he opens his mouth to explain, "Of course you love me, 'Ziraphale. That's what angels do. You love things. But I'm a demon. You don't actually <em>love</em> me, not -- not that way." The naked hurt in Aziraphale's eyes is too much to bear, so he stands up, miracling his glass full again and draining it, willing his legs to take him a safe distance away, where he leans against a bookcase and hangs his head in quiet defeat.</p><p> </p><p>"Crowley . . ."</p><p> </p><p>"No!" he snaps, spinning round to face Aziraphale. "No, you can't love me, I'm all wrong and broken and I'm not good enough for you, I wouldn't even kill the Antichrist when you asked me to, I wanted to <em>run away</em> to Alpha Centauri instead of staying and fighting and trying to stop the world ending -- you saw me, angel, after you were discorporated! I was useless. Drinking myself into a stupor, you were gone and I couldn't think of anything better to do, couldn't even make myself try to <em>save the world</em> --" He stops, panting. Pushes the sunglasses up his nose from where they'd slipped. Cracks the knuckles of his left hand, and then his right, for good measure. He knows what he has to do, has known for centuries that he's no good for the angel, but he's been staying out of pure selfish greed and want and lust. He can't do this -- he can't keep tempting Aziraphale, corrupting him. He scowls briefly.</p><p> </p><p>"Aziraphale," he says, a little more calmly, "I'm a demon. I don't love. And even if I did, loving me -- it would probably make you Fall, and that isn't worth risking. You --" he shuts his eyes "-- you don't want to know what it feels like, to not be able to feel Her grace any more. It would kill you."</p><p> </p><p>His words hang in the air. He dares a glance at the angel, whose hands are balled into fists in his lap, who is looking down and mumbling something to himself. Crowley sets his glass down on the table.</p><p> </p><p>"If that's all," he says, knowing how horrible he sounds, knowing how much Aziraphale must hate him, "I'll be off, then."</p><p> </p><p>As he is walking through the shop, he hears an intake of breath, as though Aziraphale is going to ask him to stay. But then, nothing.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anathema groans. Bother Newt, he can sleep through just about anything. She runs a hand through her hair, willing the phone to stop ringing, and when it doesn't, she groans again and clambers out of bed, shoving her feet into fuzzy slippers and wrapping a robe around her frame. It's not cold, exactly, but even English summers are just a little bit chilly to someone who grew up in California.</p><p> </p><p>Padding softly through the house, she picks up the phone. "Hello?" she says, gliding into the kitchen to put some coffee on. A glance at the clock. 6 A.M. It's inhuman to be awake at this hour.</p><p> </p><p>As luck would have it, the being on the other end of the line is inhuman. "Anathema, thank goodness. I hope I didn't wake you?"</p><p> </p><p>She bites back a sigh. "No, Aziraphale, you didn't wake me. I was just making coffee."</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, good, good." A pause, a slight intake of breath. The angel is anxious. Anathema represses the urge to tell him to get a therapist; she's pretty sure any human therapist would end up with more problems than they could help Aziraphale fix.</p><p> </p><p>"You see, it's Crowley," the angel begins apologetically. "I took your advice and, er, well, I told him last night, about how I feel, I mean, and, hrm, it . . . didn't go very well."</p><p> </p><p>Anathema listens and makes appropriate noises and seriously contemplates marching down to Hell and giving those demons what-for.</p><p> </p><p>". . . and I don't know what to do!" finishes Aziraphale, sounding very much like he is in tears.</p><p> </p><p>Anathema ponders this. She can't say she's an expert on relationships, having only recently entered the first one she's ever been in -- being a professional descendant did have its drawbacks -- but she does consider herself a bit of an expert on feelings, and right now both Aziraphale and Crowley are feeling very fragile. She pictures the plants in Crowley's flat, the ones that he definitely did not tell her about but that she knows about anyway, and shudders in sympathy as if she, too, can hear the irate whips of words that are being flung at them this very instant.</p><p> </p><p>But that's Crowley, and Aziraphale, now, is on the other end of the line, probably crying and very much needing some love. Anathema, still a little bit sleepy and in shock, says the first thing that comes to mind.</p><p> </p><p>"Why don't you come up to Tadfield for a few days?"</p><p> </p><p>There's a horrible silence. She presses on.</p><p> </p><p>"Get away from the speed, the noise of the city for a bit. You can spend some more time with Adam, let Crowley have some space to figure out what's going on with him. I don't think you should talk to him anytime soon."</p><p> </p><p>"Well, all right," says Aziraphale cautiously. "If you think it's best."</p><p> </p><p>She leans further. "You weren't going to open your shop anyway, you were just going to sit and mope alone in your flat, and at least if you come here you'll have company and people to talk to. Not that we can understand all the particulars, but being in love is a very human thing, after all."</p><p> </p><p>"You're right." The angel draws a breath, blowing his nose on a handkerchief that he probably miracled from somewhere. Anathema doesn't like thinking about the sheer laziness of immortal beings. "I'll be up later this afternoon, then? Do you think I can stay with you and -- Newt?"</p><p> </p><p>Something melts inside her at the knowledge that even with all of the chaos that was the end of the world, he remembered the name of the young man who had been by her side. "Yes, of course you can stay with us. Don't worry about that. We're looking forward to seeing you." With that, she hangs up, convinced that she's burnt the coffee.</p><p> </p><p>"Who are we looking forward to seeing?" Newt asks, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>"Aziraphale," she replies. "You came in very quietly."</p><p> </p><p>"Didn't want to disturb your conversation." He jerks a thumb at the counter. "Making toast."</p><p> </p><p>She smiles as she turns to face him. "Thank you."</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>Beelzebub presses the speakerphone button. "Prince of Hell speaking," ze announces, leaning back in zir chair and resting zir feet on the desk.</p><p> </p><p>"Ah, Beelzebub. Sorry about the, er, thing with the holy water."</p><p> </p><p>The thing is that Beelzebub has never disliked Crowley. Ze knows, of course, that demons are generally not very clever at all, and ze appreciates Crowley's initiative and imagination. Ze has also been doing some very serious thinking since Crowley's trial and has come to the conclusion that Crowley did not die because God Herself wished him to remain alive.</p><p> </p><p>It is with all this in mind that ze addresses zir fellow demon. "It is done, Crowley. There is no need to speak of what is past."</p><p> </p><p>Stunned silence, then Crowley appears to collect himself. "Right. Very decent of you. Appreciate it."</p><p> </p><p>"Don't mention it." Beelzebub allows an uncomfortable silence to fester for a while before ze ventures, "What do you want, Crowley?"</p><p> </p><p>"I -- ngk." Ze can hear him swallowing. Ze is entirely unprepared for him to ask, "Beelzebub, what do you do when someone says they're in love with you?"</p><p> </p><p>The Prince of Hell sits bolt upright. Very sternly tells zirself to breathe. Waits for zir heart rate to calm down.</p><p> </p><p>(Readers will note here that demons do not actually have hearts; however, it is useful for certain demons to behave as if they have one, in order to make their torture of damned souls more effective.)</p><p> </p><p>"Well," ze says after careful deliberation, "that would depend on who's saying they're in love with you."</p><p> </p><p>Crowley laughs, a short shrill stressed sound, and Beelzebub would put zir arms around him if he were here. On second thought, he doesn't trust zir. Of course not. They're demons. Would be a funny world if demons went around trusting each other.</p><p> </p><p>And then it dawns on zir, suddenly, all at once, in a way that would knock the breath out of zir if ze were the sort of being who breathed.</p><p> </p><p>"It's not that . . . angel, is it?"</p><p> </p><p>And Crowley is sobbing into the phone.</p><p> </p><p>Heaven. Beelzebub really doesn't know how to deal with this. Ze's never had feelings for anyone, and as far as ze knows, no one has ever had feelings for zir.</p><p> </p><p>Ze opens zir mouth several times, only to close it again. Occasionally an underling will come in with a message and ze will wave them away with murder in zir eyes. They scamper out of zir office, only too happy to comply.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually Crowley stops crying.</p><p> </p><p>"What's the problem, then?" Beelzebub asks, not unkindly. "You're in love with him too, aren't you?"</p><p> </p><p>Ze can hear it in Crowley's breath, the hint of another flood of tears starting, and then he catches himself. "Don't be silly, Beelzebub. Demons can't love."</p><p> </p><p>"Yes, I suppose that is what they told us," ze says thoughtfully. "But then again, you were never the sort of demon who followed the rules."</p><p> </p><p>"I --" Crowley hiccups. Barks a laugh. "I can't corrupt him, you understand. I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if I did. If he Fell" -- Beelzebub imagines Crowley shutting his eyes, wincing, another tear or two leaking down his cheeks -- "I would probably try to kill God."</p><p> </p><p>Beelzebub's back is ramrod straight. "<em>Crowley</em>," ze hisses, "you muzzt <em>never</em> zzay that again, do you underzzstand?"</p><p> </p><p>Ze feels it through the telephone line, the moment when Crowley freezes, every fibre of his body in shock at what he said.</p><p> </p><p>But he doesn't take it back. "Listen, Beelzebub, I don't know if you've ever been in love, but this -- I would do anything for him. Anything! 'S terrifying. I don't . . . I rejected him."</p><p> </p><p>Beelzebub growls. "You did <em>what?"</em></p><p> </p><p>"I told you, I rejected --"</p><p> </p><p>"You're telling me," ze snarls, the flies around zir face buzzing ever more angrily, "that you <strong>stopped Armageddon for this angel and you won't even tell him you're in love with him?</strong>"</p><p> </p><p>A pause, then, "Yes," says Crowley somewhat sheepishly, "that is what I'm telling you."</p><p> </p><p>Beelzebub hangs up.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Adam has questions. He's had questions since Dog appeared for the first time. None of the adults in his life appear to have any answers, not even Anathema. She'd seemed at first as though she knew a lot, but Adam suspects that was a front.</p><p>The only adults he thinks might have any answers are the funny ones with wings. He's pretty sure they're angels -- at least, he would be pretty sure if he believed in angels. But if anyone could make him believe in angels, it would be those two, holding his hands and locking eyes over his head. He knows their souls have always been meant for each other.</p><p>Which is why he's so confused when only one of them appears in Anathema's kitchen. The angel is drinking a cup of tea, if by "drinking" one means "gazing despondently into the depths of". The witch is seated on the other side of the table, watching his face.</p><p>Dog, who just now had been bounding about with great energy, settles into a huddle over the angel's feet. His socked feet. Are those Christmas socks in August? (Dear reader, they are.)</p><p>"Hello, Adam," says Anathema cautiously.</p><p>The angel raises his head.</p><p>Adam, who is, after all, only a teenage boy, says the first thing that comes to his mind: "Why's there only one of you?"</p><p>The angel's lip trembles. With Herculean effort he swallows.</p><p>"That's rather why I'm here," he says softly. "Needed some time away from him."</p><p>Adults are silly. "Why's that?"</p><p>"Adam--" begins Anathema warningly.</p><p>The angel holds up a hand. "It's all right, Anathema." He raises the cup of tea to his lips and drains it. "I told him I loved him, you see, and he told me I didn't."</p><p>"But I thought--" Adam hesitates, looking back and forth between the two others. "I thought you and him were married."</p><p>"You are correct in a sense," says the angel with a delicate sigh. "I have thought of myself as married to Crowley for several centuries at least. But he has made it clear that he does not feel the same."</p><p>Adam contemplates this. This angel's words don't fit with the way he saw the two angels looking at each other, but he figures he souldn't say that right now. Adults can be touchy about this sort of thing, and Anathema is still shooting daggers at him with her eyes. So he does the next best thing: he changes the subject.</p><p>"Fancy a walk?"</p><p>-----</p><p>Warlock doesn't like St. James' Park. In fact, he takes great care not to like anything. His mother is trying to get him to feed the ducks with her, but he folds his arms over his chest and scowls to devastating effect. He doesn't like his mother. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he catches a flash of red and black, eerily similar to the last person he remembers liking: his Nanny.</p><p>The crowd around the ice-cream stand parts, and Warlock sees that the figure is not, in fact, his Nanny. It's a man, his hair coiffed elegantly and his leather jacket shined to perfection. But the sunglasses, the stance the half-smile are all Nanny, and Warlock is walking toward the man before he realises what he is doing. He faintly hears his mother shouting at him, but he decides she really doesn't matter right now.</p><p>The man turns, ice-cream in hand, and Warlock promptly knocks it out of his hand. Above the sunglasses, familiar eyebrows rise in surprise.</p><p>"Warlock?"</p><p>"Nanny?"</p><p>The man takes a step back, crushing the ice-cream cone in his hand. He reaches out with his other hand and grasps Warlock's shoulder, firmly but not hard enough to bruise; Warlock's hand instantly rises to clutch the other. Quickly the man sweeps them aside, still in plain view of anyone who cares to look, just a bit less in everyone's faces.</p><p>He drops his hand from Warlock's shoulder as if in pain. "What do you want?"</p><p>Warlock, still reeling a little from the shock, asks the first thing that comes to mind. "Where's Brother Francis?"</p><p>He's not sure what the desired effect was, but this is not it. The man steps back, his face contorting into the most expressive visage of pain Warlock has ever seen. One hand rises to his temple, the other presses against his heart, and the groan that emerges from his lips -- well, the less said about that, the better.</p><p>Warlock attempts to tamp down his self-hatred, but it isn't easy. He's hurt his Nanny.</p><p>"I'm sorry," he offers timidly. "I just thought -- you know, when I was little, the two of you were always together, and -- well, I thought he was your husband."</p><p>The man who was once Nanny hisses at that, seeming to withdraw further into himself.</p><p>"'S not my husband. 'S an angel. Shouldn't love me. 'M not good enough." He pauses, pulls down the sunglasses; his eyes are slit like a snake's and are a most startling shade of gold. "'M not <em>good</em>," he repeats, fixint these eyes on Warlock with painful intensity.</p><p>This, however, is something Warlock has always been and will always be sure of. "You don't have to be good to be loved," he says earnestly. "And you are very much loved. By Brother Francis, and by me."</p><p>It is, unfortunately, at that moment that Warlock's mother finds them and, grabbing her son firmly by his upper arm and walking him away, begins to berate him loudly. Warlock doesn't hear what she says; he is watching his Nanny's face become smaller and crumple into tears.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Trigger warning for death and descriptions of violence in this chapter.</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>-----</strong>
</p>
<p>The telephone in the bookshop rings. And rings.</p>
<p>Aziraphale sounds rather out of breath when he answers, but at least he's answered, thank God. "Terribly sorry, I'm afraid we're closed at the moment. Do try again tomorrow."</p>
<p>"Angel?" Crowley has, quite literally, stopped breathing.</p>
<p>An automated voice replies, "Please record your message after the tone," followed by a beep.</p>
<p>"Angel, look, I'm sorry, all right? I know it was wrong of me to tell you how you feel. I was just -- I'm just -- there's a lot of bloody feelings and consequences going through my head right now, and if you'd like we can talk about those. Just please give me a call back, if you're still in London." He pauses, then whispers, "I love you" and hangs up.</p>
<p>Forty miles away, in a small village in Oxfordshire, Aziraphale dreams.</p>
<p>-----</p>
<p>Newt has never pretended to understand people. Computers, now, he feels he might be able to get a grasp of; but until Anathema, he has been quite content to bumble around in a way that has proven mildly offensive to most other people he's encountered. This has so far resulted in far fewer disasters than his technological pursuits.</p>
<p>Now, however, he feels horribly awkward and wishes he were different, and no amount of Anathema telling him that she loves him the way he is has been able to calm him down.</p>
<p>He lies on his side in bed, facing her. She sleeps with her mouth shut. Even in her sleep she is the most beautiful person he has ever seen. He still exists in a state of disbelief that she likes him, that she <em>wants</em> him.</p>
<p>The telephone rings.</p>
<p>Newt curses under his breath, scrambling out of bed and reaching half-blindly for his robe, stealing glances back at the bed to make sure Anathema hasn't woken up. He clatters into the kitchen and yelps at a stubbed pinky toe. Cradling the receiver between his shoulder and his ear as he massages the offended appendage, he hisses, "This had better be good."</p>
<p>"Oh, Antichrist." The voice on the other end sounds mildly alarmed. "Should have checked the time before ringing. Sorry, did I wake you?"</p>
<p>"No," admits Newt. "Who is this?"</p>
<p>A beat. "Crowley."</p>
<p>Newt almost drops the phone in shock.</p>
<p>Crowley continues, "Listen, is Aziraphale there? I need -- he isn't in London, and I can't think where else he would have gone."</p>
<p>"Yes, no, y-yes, he's here." Newt gingerly returns his foot to the floor. "I think he's asleep at the moment. Can I take a message?"</p>
<p>"Asleep?" The breathing on the other end becomes heavier; it takes Newt rather an embarrassing amount of time to realise that the other is laughing. "'Ziraphale doesn't sleep, my dear Mr Pulsifer. I'm the slothful one. His deadly sin is gluttony."</p>
<p>"N-nonetheless," Newt soldiers on gallantly, "he is, in fact, very much asleep."</p>
<p>The other mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a curse, if curses were the wrong way round. "Fine. I'm coming up to Tadfield."</p>
<p>"Wh-" Newt begins, but the line has disconnected.</p>
<p>-----</p>
<p>
  <em>He's just asked Michael for a rubber duck.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Aziraphale reclines back in the bath, lazily flicking some of the water at the floor-to-ceiling windows. If his corporation were like Crowley's, he suspects his movements would be just as languid and unintentionally seductive. He shakes his head, hard, pulling himself out of that train of thought ...</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>... and into Heaven. He is surrounded by angels, bound to a chair with chains of steel, and Crowley is bound to a similar chair on the opposite side of the ring of angels that is slowly pressing inwards on them. Gabriel stands between them, forming the third point of a triangle.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>"Aziraphale," booms Gabriel, "you are accused of fornicating with a demon, of telling said demon that you love him, and of conspiring to marry said demon. How do you plead?"</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Crowley opens his mouth, which is immediately covered with a gag.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Aziraphale shuts his eyes, allows the tears to fall. He is under no illusions; he knows that however he pleads, they will hurt Crowley. He also knows that he cannot betray the only creature who has never betrayed him.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>His voice only shakes a little as he says, "Guilty."</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He is falling, falling ...</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>... he is lying on the ground. Every part of him -- his corporation, his soul -- is in terrible pain. He moves to sit up and yelps at the stabbing sensation his movement produces.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He reaches out with his soul, tries to find another. There is only emptiness. He has Fallen.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Slowly, by degrees, over what feels like at least an hour, he manages to sit up. What he sees very nearly makes him collapse again: Crowley's body, in pieces, spread around him in a grotesque imitation of a summoning circle. He leans forward and retches. His stomach is empty, but it continues to attempt to force its very lining out until it has completely exhausted Aziraphale and he slumps forward over his legs, his eyes drifting shut.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>As he begins to lose himself to the darkness, a voice speaks in his head. "Was it worth it, Aziraphale?"</em>
</p>
<p>-----</p>
<p>Aziraphale sits bolt upright, drenched in sweat, eyes wide. Without fully understanding what he is doing, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and allows his feet to take him to the kitchen, where he saw the phone earlier. He dials the only number he's ever known by heart.</p>
<p>The telephone in the flat rings. And rings.</p>
<p><em>Click.</em> "You know what to do, do it with style."</p>
<p>"Crowley, are you there? I dreamed you were dead, my dear. Please ring me back, I need to hear your voice. Or -- no, that's selfish of me, isn't it? I'm sorry, I keep putting my own feelings before yours." He pauses. "You don't have to love me. I think I've always loved you. Oh, dear, I'm not making very much sense, am I? Well, anyway, please ring me back when you get this, I hope you're sleeping well." He keeps the receiver pressed to his chest for a long time before hanging it up and going back to bed.</p>
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